Of Trains and Temptation
by TheBookRider
Summary: While dismantling Moriarty's network, Sherlock fights the temptation to call John and reveal that he is alive.


_Disclaimer: I have never watched Sherlock._

Sherlock is weighed down by exhaustion. He has traveled through many worlds and hurts in the past few years, and all he wants to do is rest. But he can't, because there's still more to do. More spiderwebs to pick apart with a pair of needle-nose tweezers, like he did with his specimens at home.

Home. Baker Street far away. Sometimes, when he is feeling especially lonely – not lonely, he chides himself, only bored...no cases – he wonders what it would be like just to call John.

Just to hear his friend's voice.

Once.

But the world's only consulting detective quickly banishes this thought from his mind.

…

Since he prefers not to make much contact with Mycroft because it's safer and far less annoying, his overbearing brother does not interfere when he decides to use a train as his next transportation vehicle to whichever country he's being shipped off to now.

Mycroft, however, is not above having one of his agents (prematurely graying hair, heavy smoker, fear of forks) bump into Sherlock at the train station and deposit of bottle of pills into his coat.

Sherlock doesn't even _bother _to read what they're for as he tosses them in the trash can on the way to board his train. Yes, he is feeling slightly hotter than normal, and yes, he does feel the irrational need to sleep. But is that any cause for alarm?

When he sinks into the padded cushion of the train car (he would have preferred a private car, but he can't be too conspicuous), he pretends that his head hurts from all of the interior intelligence wafting through the air around him. A mother and her three ugly screaming children almost take the seat across from Sherlock, the one next to him being occupied by his black bag precisely to keep people _away._

But one look at Sherlock's face – he can only imagine what the scarring looks like because he hasn't looked in a mirror – and his sneer, and she quickly relocates herself and her brats to a seat further down the train.

…

Someone's tapping on his shoulder. Sherlock's first reaction is to incapacitate whoever it is with one of the fifty-two ways to kill someone and make it look like an accident stored in his brain.

"Your ticket, please, sir."

Even though it feels like lead is weighing everything down, Sherlock's eyes open. It is only the conductor.

Wordlessly, Sherlock rifles through his black bag and procures the wanted tab of paper. He hands it over. The conductor scans it, and after the machine in his hand beeps, he hands it back to Sherlock.

As the train clacks on, out of civilization, Sherlock feels worse. Feverish, maybe. His head hurts, so he tries to bring relief to himself by pressing his forehead against the cold glass of the window. He is going to fall asleep. For a few hours on the train, he will find rest.

He almost groans aloud in frustration when someone takes the seat opposite him.

(Male, thirty years old, doctor, plays golf every Tuesday with a person he only pretends to like.)

Sherlock has seen him before. He knows it. Hoping he hasn't deleted his memory of him, Sherlock searches his great brain storage until he matches the face.

John Morris. From Bart's.

To any other person, this would have been a relief, to recognize someone so far away from home.

To Sherlock, who has been hunted and hunter, captor and captive for the past two years, this man is a threat.

Whom can he _really _trust? Those that he knew for certain he could are far away, back in London.

This man could be a spy. It's happened before. He can trust no one.

Morris is staring at him, brow rippling in confusion. "Hey, do I-"

Before Morris can finish his sentence, Sherlock is on his feet, black bag in hand. "No, I assure you that you do _not." _Before the other man can protest, Sherlock is striding down the train, past the woman with the screaming offspring.

He spends the rest of the trip in the bathroom.

…

He didn't bother cluttering his mind with the same of the small town he's in. The train is only fueling up.

As he stumbles out of the train on its break, his eyes are drawn to a very out-of-place landmark. A cellphone tower. Yes, he expected the people of the town to make phone calls, but it looks so...odd, jutting into the wintry sky.

"One hour!" the conductor calls out, like a mother warning her son to return before dark.

Sherlock snorts. An hour is completely too much time to him. Whatever would anyone find to do in such a small place of habitation? Count sheep? The idea is absurd.

Most families and persons on the train are flocking to a tiny restaurant, ducks attracted by bread. To not stand out, Sherlock follows them. Although staying nondescript has been his number one goal the past two years, everyone still stares at him. He knows what they're looking at. The white ropy scar that stretches across his cheekbone. Mycroft was late.

He pulls the unattractive brown coat he saved from a dumpster more tightly around himself, wishing it was his beloved Belstaff. Since eating always clogs up his brain, Sherlock decides to forgo food and peruse the outside market for something, a scarf, perhaps, to further keep the cold out.

(The stand owner own an orange cat that she is allergic to and plays the flute.)

Most of the wares are made of a rough, scratchy wool. As he fingers them, Sherlock sighs, thinking about the drawer of blue silk scarves that have accumulated over the years.

He pays for a woolen one the exact same shade.

As he wraps it around his neck, he notices a trail leading out of the village. Where it goes, he does no know, but he sets out for it. It will certainly be better than standing around, being bored for the next forty-seven minutes while all of the other pesky people waste their time on gorging themselves.

As Sherlock follows the trail, the world tilts sideways at odd times. His stomach is rolling.

But the view is worth it.

Stretched below him is a valley dusted in fine white powder like all of those silly Christmas decorations Mrs. Hudson puts up every year. If he squints, he can see a river at the bottom, not quite frozen over yet.

A wave of nausea hits Sherlock, and he braces himself against the rickety rusty railing to the overlook.

How many days has it been since he's talked to John? (876)

How many nights since he has been able to curl up in his chair by the fireplace next to John with his violin?

Before he realizes what he is doing, the burner phone he picked up in Rome is in his hands. Its burning cold metal is a warning, telling him that he shouldn't be doing what he's about to do.

John's number is right there, in front of him. All it would take is one drop of a finger, and it will happen.

_Don't be irrational and stupid, _the Mycroft in his brain tells him. _Caring never gets you anywhere._

After a hesitation, skin meets screen.

The phone rings once. Sherlock doesn't know if he wants John to pick up or not – doesn't know if he can bear hearing the sound of his voice.

The phone rings a second time. Sherlock imagines John fumbling with his device and trying to figure out to accept the call.

A third time.

And John answers.

_"__Hello? John Watson speaking."_

John's voice is not as he remembered it. It is heavier. Sadder.

_"__Hello?"_

Sherlock's heart is heavy in his chest. Everything, every scar, every unhealed wound he has received in the past two years aches.

He wants to say hello to his only friend. To explain why he had to fake his death.

He wants to amaze John with his deductions.

But Sherlock Holmes does not get what Sherlock Holmes wants.

"_Who is this? Are you in need of medical assistance?"_

Of course John would look to help others first. Sherlock hadn't even realized how labored his breathing was directly into the phone where John could hear.

_"__Hello? I can hear you breathing. Is this some sort of a joke?"_

John has no idea it's him.

If he had feelings, he would say it hurts.

One word, and he would know. One word, and then Sherlock wouldn't be so lonely.

But he can't. It would ruin everything he's striven for and put John in danger even more.

_"__If it's an emergency, please call Scotland Yard immediately."_

Only barely does Sherlock choke back a bark of a laugh. Scotland Yard? They weren't even able to find an elephant under their very noses!

John waits on the other end of the line. Because Sherlock knows John, he knows John is hesitating, hoping whoever is calling will identify himself, apologize for the wrong number, or say it's an emergency.

So Sherlock solves the dilemma for him and hangs up. Before he leaves the overlook, he chucks the phone over the edge and into the icy river below so it will not tempt him again.

…

He's back on the train again, without a phone and feeling worse than before. But he's kept John safe by staying away for now. He will not be so foolish again in the future.

Soon, after the next mission is complete, one of Mycroft's agents will hand him another phone and his next assignment. He will be off to another isolated corner of the world, further dismantling Moriarty's tightly woven spiderweb.

Sherlock coughs into a handkerchief and tries to ignore the fact that his skin feels definitely hot. John isn't there to nag him, and he certainly isn't going to _another_ doctor. The idea is absurd.

Perhaps... when it's all over and his task is done, he drop by John's flat instead of calling him.

Yes, Sherlock decides, settling more comfortably into the train car seat. That's exactly what he'll do.

John will be so pleased to hear from him.


End file.
